Enraged blade
by Tilpin
Summary: A Death knight is brought into difficult situation. Rated M for language
1. Dealing

Red rain poured from the sky, as if an angry god had cut a wound, its blood soaking the army gathered in the plague lands. The thick drops drummed on their dark armour, a steady rhythmic pinging noise. The army stood still, no one spoke and no one moved. From a distance, it didn't even seem that any drew breath, though most didn't. This was an army of the dead.

Porbazonk stood near the front line, garbed in the black blue gear marking him as a death knight. His icy blue eyes peered out from the shadow of his steel plate helm, watching for any movement ahead of them, leaning to the side to look past the line of ghouls in their sparse armour (scavenged off dead soldiers of the silver hand and argent dawn) and the odd weapon that they shared among themselves. Porbazonk gulped and winced as he did so. His echoing voice amplified more than just his speech. A deep chuckle came from beside him, ringing metallically. "You are easy to frighten, aren't you Porbby." Even in death Darnarion kept his ridiculous Dranor accent, which grew more irritating with the voice of the death knights.

"I'm not scared," Porbazonk's voice was high, though slightly less than other goblins. "I'm...thirsty." He told him, his eyes had become slits as he glared at his giant ally.

"And I the High Prophet." Darnarion still chuckled, quieting down as the head of the army spoke.

"Today the Argent Dawn will realize their folly; today we do the work of our king. Today we return the hatred they have given us tenfold!" Lord Darion thrust his blade into the air, attempting to incite his army. The only sound that could be heard was the ever constant drumming the blood rain on the armour of the death knights. The lord turned his horse around and charged, his army thundering behind him toward the chapel. The defenders were waiting for them, their blades held out and their shields raised, the cocksure gleam in their eyes fading as the monstrous horde crashed down on them in a wave of bodies.

Porbazonk threw himself into the fray; his rune blade was glowing with unholy energy, thirsting for blood. A defender stood before him, shield raised to block the tiny man's giant blade. He lasted less than a minute. Porbazonk swung downward, shattering the young warrior's shield and cleaving him in two. He gleefully tore through dozens more, decimating the seasoned veterans and green trainees alike. The ballet raged for near half an hour, the lich king's forces still came.

Porbazonk couldn't say what ended the battle, but he knew what ended it for him. He was locked in a battle with one of the men who seemed to be able to hold his own. A bright flash of lightning ignited the ground next to him, sending a wave of heat pouring over Porbazonk, making his armour all the more uncomfortable. As the thunder pealed the knight smashed the blunt of his blade against Porbazonk's wrist, breaking the bone and making him drop his rune blade. The two opponents locked eyes, Porbazonk glared resentfully at his better, before swinging a kick to the defender's shin, creating a satisfying crunch of broken bone and letting his more animal instincts kick in. Porbazonk ran, passing by all of his allies and losing himself deep in the crevices of the plaguelands.

Porbazonk woke from his fitful sleep; his breathing was laboured and loud. He knew that he would have no more sleep tonight. His dreams of late had been repetitive and always of his days under control. Dreams that would have made any man wake in a sweat and piss soaked bed. The thing that separated Porbazonk and a man was the fact that Porbazonk could do neither. He missed the sweating, which felt odd to think. Of all the things to miss, sweat was the one he missed the most.

He rubbed his perpetually balding head, it used to be a blinding gold, but now it was a rapidly fading white with only the faintest streaks of blond mixed in. He pushed his thin covers off and rolled off his thinner mattress. He fell two feet to the floor, crouching slightly as he hit the dirt floor. Stained and soiled clothes hung on a black oak coat rack in the corner which poked through the ceiling. Porbazonk dressed himself slowly, still half asleep and shaking slightly from his dream.

He pulled on his customary brown cotton pants that were itchier than death was cold and a linen shirt that at some point in the distant past must have been white, but now it was closer to a yellow sweat stained color. He did his best to get comfortable in the poor clothes, failing as per usual. Giving up he moved to the small metal furnace that he called a stove. A small glass jar sat within the furnace, a blue fire burned without kindling or spark. Porbazonk withdrew the small jar with a smile stretched on his wrinkled face. The jar was cool but the blue fire within could sear the flesh from a fire elemental. He placed the jar of flame on his stove and removed the lid, heat poured through the top. The goblin snatched an abnormally large rat from a half broken spice rack that hung lopsided from a congregated iron wall. He hung the rat over the flame for just a moment, the heat was intense against his hand, and then he yanked it away. He blew on the burnt meat, extinguishing any flame that was left over. He quickly capped the jar and returned it to its resting place before sitting down on the dirt and eating his breakfast.

As he ate he heard the rain, drumming off the sheet iron roof and dripping into his house, clear blue water not blood red. He supposed the sound of the water was what had brought him back to that day. He had run from the battle and stayed uninvolved in the war against the Lich King, isolate and alone in a small house on the outskirts of Booty Bay. It was there he heard of the demise of Arthas and that day he had packed and left for Orgrimmar. It had taken him almost a full year to get to the great city, and he hoped to find more of his brothers in the Ebon Blade. When he arrived, however he was greeted by people he had never thought to see had arrived with him. Goblins, Kazen Goblins, fresh from the island. The last bunch too, the island was gone.

Porbazonk shook himself, cutting short his stroll down memory lane. The rat was only bones now hanging off the tail with a few bits of meat and muscle left over. Porbazonk threw it with practice precision into a rapidly growing pile of bones next to the cloth covered hole that he counted as a door. He brushed off the left over morsels of meat from his short pants and stood, rolling his shoulders and now fully awake. He crossed his off centre shack until he found the small trapdoor he had hidden under a pile of dirt. He shovelled dirt off the trap door with his hands; a few more specs of dirt under his nails meant nothing to him. With a loud grunt he swung the thick truesilver door open revealing a thin shaft with light spilling from it. Torches hung all the way down, illuminating the way down. Porbazonk slipped onto the new rope ladder he had nailed into the wall, breaking into the rock that was a few inches behind the dirt. He climbed for near five minutes, his pale knuckles even whiter as he clutched for his life onto the rungs.

Finally he reached the bottom and released the breath he had been holding for that entire time. Four paths led out from the ladder, two towards the left and two towards the right. Torches lined each tunnel, not an easy feat even with an army of ghouls assisting him. Porbazonk took the far left path, a wide cavernous path almost ten feet high and wide enough for three orcs to walk abreast. The path sloped gently down, making the walk easier. Stairs of stone had been built sloppily and hurriedly, causing some to jut out at strange angles and disproportionate sizes, but they worked.

Porbazonk followed the path until it came to another junction. A ladder hung on the left rung leading upward and a small, almost invisible cavern branched to the right, full of darkness. Porbazonk crawled through the small tunnel, his arm placed out in front of him, feeling for the door. After a few moments he felt the cold steel and a grin crept onto his face. Putting all of his meagre weight against the door, he felt it collapse with a clang and felt the light from the chamber flood the tiny tunnel he was laying in. He rolled into the next room, taking in deep breaths, grateful to be free of the underground maze. He knelt, closing the door behind him, making sure that the latch was locked in place. He stood now, the grin on his face grown wider as he turned and beheld the sight before him. Mountains of gold and gems rested in this chamber, dwarfing even the treasury of Iornforge. Torches hung off of every wall in lavish silver holders, casting light that was then bounced all across the chamber giving the very air a sparkling and brilliant sheen.

This was his secret trove; it had taken all of his luck and skill to keep it hidden until a day when it could fully be of use. Looking at it now, it took all his will power to not dive into the mountains of gold and swim in his earnings. He had to resist his urge and passed by the hoard he had claimed, reaching the end of the chamber he found another rope ladder, this one far more frayed and dilapidated. He climbed this one far more carefully, unsure of its stability. It was a short climb, ending after only a minute and by Porbazonk banging his head against the concealed trap door. Rubbing his scalp indignantly, Porbazonk threw the door open and entered into the dusty room above. A thin layer of the stuff had settled over everything, everything except the trapdoor which saw much use by Porbazonk. The room was far from bare; furniture lay in a random assortment with no real order behind the placement. It would have been the most envied hall in the stone city some ten years prior but had fallen to pieces over the years of misuse. A hearth that had not seen fire for near a decade sat, empty and looming, begging for travelers to sit around it and stories shared by it. It would have to keep begging as Porbazonk slammed the hidden door down and closed the flap that was used as a handle.

He hurried into the next room, a far less dreary sight than the last one. A few candles were lit and most of the dust cleared away, a few dots here and there still remained. A woman blood elf sat a small glass of wine in her petit hand. She held the glass as gentle as if it were a priceless jewel that could shatter at the slightest provocation. She swirled a light yellow liquid, a cheap wine but in her hand seemed to be a forty year old vintage made by the wineries of the elves. She looked up at him, her long red hair swinging slowly to the side, and uncovering her pale green eyes. Her eyes almost matched her skin in complexion; one would swear she was a ghost at first glance, but Porbazonk knew better, although he did suppose he could hope someone had finally done the harpy in. "You're out late." Her voice cut through him like an ice cold knife. Whenever she spoke it was in an almost mocking tone, as if she knew something you didn't, or worse your most well kept secret had become forfeit to her.

"How?" It was all he needed to ask.

She made a tuting noise with her tongue. "I own this city, you think I would not learn of your little charade death knight?" She spoke the word "little" with a slight in her voice. "It was only a matter of where. Now I will give you two choices, accept my terms, or have the Warcheif breathing down your neck about not paying your dues and your beggar cousins clustering you for your wealth." She had a shadow of a smile on her face as she took a slow sip from her glass, greed shone in her eyes.

"What are your terms?" He sighed through his gnashing teeth. "You wish for a share in my profits?" He had no intention of sharing his gold, he may love dealing but one never makes a deal with the devil. His mind was quickly running over the places he could hide the body, ways he could turn the devious bitch into a sign to all the other landlords that plagued him.

"Nothing as simple. I want you." She told him flatly.

"Well I'm flattered, but conniving whore is not my type." He told her curtly, never giving away emotion, while on the inside he grinned, knowing how thin her skin truly was.

A flash of angry crossed her eyes, but it was quickly quelled. "No, I suppose not. Many boys tend to avoid the type of women who birthed them," He felt his cheeks burn "what i need is your blade. You will be my personal...'disposal unit'." She told him.

"What do you need disposing of?" He asked her. Porbazonk was pretty sure she didn't need a man to handle her garbage.

"Trash and pest who I grow weary of. Or those who grow too big for their own good, these pieces of trash especially."

"So you want for me to be your hit man? I am no rogue; your jobs do not speak to my particular skills."

"Ah, but that is the brilliance of it, you will not be as a rogue, nay you will be something far better. The men and women are all suspecting to die from a dagger in their backs or a poison in their drinks. You, however, none have prepared for. A full on attack from a Death knight? No one would ever expect such a way to die!"

"No?" Porbazonk had kept her talking, hoping to bring her guard down. He had planned his next twenty steps and how his blade would be swung. He knew where she would lay for her final rest, such a shame her funeral would have only one attendee. His hand played at the hilt of his left blade absentmindedly.

"Not a one." She smiled "As luck would have it, I doubt even I would see it coming." That stilled his blade. The smile told all. She knew his thoughts, a nasty habit of hers and had already planned ahead. He could feel the guns and arrows pointed at his head now. Silently he cursed himself; he had walked into a trap. Even if he turned down her deal he doubted he would make it out alive.

"How much trash must I collect to earn back your favour and my freedom?" He asked, averting his sight from the bottomless, heartless pit that she called eyes.

"How much is this secret worth to you?" She asked him slyly; knowing full well that if revealed his entire life would have been for nought.

Porbazonk cursed himself once more "Who is first?" She smiled at this, glad to have finally found someone to fill this position.

"A man named Baron Thotch, greedy orc bastard owes me more than anyone's fair share of gold." She could see the hatred and anger in his eyes, the fury that was building and his clever mind plotting a way to end his servitude. _Good, _She thought, _I need not a friend or an ally. What i need is a quiet man to do my work, nothing more __and nothing less. Let his fury rise, let it reach passed his head and extend to the priestess in her paradise in the light. His anger will make him do his work better. That is what I need, an enraged blade._


	2. Flames and employment

"_Necromancy, one of the strongest arts known to any race of this planet. Our kind speaks of their ancestors and their gods in legends of their strength and prowess, their cunning and __courage. Where are these heroes when they are needed most? Dead, buried and forgotten except by the stories you hear around the fire with your families on their festivals." _Tragen held the heavy black tome in his large gloved hand. He remembered writing the words for the youngling warlocks to study at their leisure. It hurt him as he ignited the the tome. The reed pages burned nicely, a thick black smoke rising up as the fire spat and crackled. Tragen sighed, facing the library he had pulled the book from and raised his hands. A massive fireball formed in his hands and launched themselves towards the library, destroying the entire east wing and quickly spreading to the others. Tragen pulled his black hood over his head and slipped away, a small fire in his hand to illuminate his path. "One more." Targen muttered under his breath and crossed one location off his map.

Porbazonk grew frustrated, this endless searching and herding by Lady Bolivane's guards had made him start to question why he had not just taken his chance and ended her pitiful life then. He approached a tall tauren dressed in the black leathers of his Lady's guard. His arms had been tattooed, silver serpents coiled up and down his arms, a symbol of his Lady's house. Piercing yellow eyes stared out from the snakes, who seemed to follow his movement. The tauren stuck out his foot, blocking Porbazonk at the chest and preventing him from passing by. The massive man stretched out an arm and told him "You must be at least this tall to ride." The tauren giggled at his own joke.

"Yes? Then I wonder how milady deals with her gnome patrons." Porbazonk told him, hopping over the giant's hoofed foot. "I suppose she must come out here? That must be an odd sight for you to behold, your Lady pleasing a gnome before your very eyes." Porbazonk felt the beast's three fingered hand close around his chest. He was yanked from the ground and held before the giant's face.

"You'll do well to watch your tongue around her ladyship and the men that she has enlisted. Many were brought here either fresh from prison, rejects from the army or grew up in the cleft. I happen to be all three." He smiled, his few remaining teeth stained red, from what Porbazonk guessed was far too much enjoyment of bloodthistle.

"Put him down Currack, he is my man as much as you, however much you disagree." Lady Bolivane had emerged from the door, a long, skin tight purple dress that trailed behind her for a few inches. As ever she looked stunning, Porbazonk himself however only saw a feral dog wearing poor sheep's clothing. "Now put him down or I fear the slap on your wrist may very well take your hand off. The tauren grunted submissively and released the goblin, letting him fall five feet to the ground.

"Why thank you good sir, now if i may say so you have the loveliest eyes I've ever seen. However you may want to keep them closed, I could feel the stupidity oozing from your very essence."Currack bristled, his fist balling. It was now that Porbazonk noticed the gleaming bronze of the metal rings he wore on his hand, one on each knuckle and each large enough to break through cow skin. His own hand danced just above the hilt of one of his blades.

"Enough!" Bolivane stood between the two. "If the two of you will not cease I'll send you back to the recruiter with your army tabard," She glared at Currack "and you will never hear the end of your beggar relatives. Simply to say, the Warcheif himself will have words for each of you, the word 'traitor' will be among them I would think." These seemed to be the right words to seperate the two of them, it was no secret what Hellscream did to traitors and, at least to Porbazonk, if he must serve evil he may as well serve the evil that was less likely to amputate the parts of his body he would really miss. If only less likely.

The tauren grumbled something inaudible, and though his voice still seemed him ready for murder, he sat on his hands, hiding his gleaming knuckles. Bolivane nodded curtly at him, then gestured for Porbazonk to follow her.

The door at the end of the hallway swung open silently, the old building had been taken care of very well. The room was furnished in the way only an elf could, long purple drapes that rippled in the gentle breeze that entered through the thin slit of a window, deep red carpet covered the whole room and supported a mahogany desk and chairs of the same wood. Various plants were grown in the room, some of the samples would make a herbalist foam at the mouth and sell their home, soul and family to hold but a leaf for a moment. "The carpet is a nice touch, easy to hide blood stains?"

"The carpeting was white when I had it lain."

"Ahh." Bolivane sauntered to the seat behind the desk. She moved as fluid as water and graceful as a doe in Ashenvale. Unlike water or the doe, a pale sheath hung at her side. The hilt of the dagger had a tigersey gem that seemed to cast its own light over the room. In the very center of the gem was a small chip, slightly diminishing the beauty of the jewel. Porbazonk climbed into one of the chairs, feeling his short legs hanging a few feet off the ground. "How is it?" He asked her as his glowing blue eyes scoured the lavish office. "How is it that with all the people in the slums have to drink from what the misers call water, while you sip from vintages. Some have no homes, yet you've commissioned men for an almost dead art," he gestured towards the carpet. "if you continue like this, I may start to respect you. I may." He emphasized the last word.

The Lady chuckled, a rolling stream hidden with her voice. "Why is it that some are stronger than others? Why is it that others far surpass their peers in their 'almost dead art'? The gods play favorites, it just so happens I am one." She gave him one of her gleaming toothy smiles, the light catching her teeth almost blinding any who beheld one. "However, neither of us are here to discuss our philosophies, you are here to work for me. Here is what I need of you." She handed him a small piece of parchment with an orcs effigy scribed on it. The baron's face was round and thick, huge bulbous cheeks and sagging jowls protruded from his face. Bright red hair hung passed his neck and bangs boxed in his face. His eyes were small black dots, hard and unfeeling. He had no nose.

"If the nose weren't enough, an orc with red hair?" Porbazonk laughed softly. "I should have no problem finding him, let alone ending him." He folded the parchment slowly and carefully, sliding it into his pocket. "Consider it done." Porbazonk dropped to the floor, turning on his heel. He tried his best to hide the fact he was hurrying.

"Porbby," Her tinkling voice came from the desk. Porbazonk turned slowly, wincing at his failed escape plan. He turned, facing back towards her. The sun was setting in the window and casting its final light over his Lady, her almost crimson hair glowing in the sunset casting a warm light over her desk. "If you fail me but once it will not only be your fortune that you lose." The warmth her hair had seemed to give was replaced by her frigid words and Porbazonk began to wonder again who was more likely to chop his dick off.


End file.
